With the Fire on High by Elizabeth Acevedo
That Girl
Yup. I was that girl your moms warns you about being friends with. And warns you about becoming. Not even done with freshman year of high school and already a belly that extended past my toes. It’s a good thing Babygirl was born in August since I probably would have failed out if I had to go to school the last month of my pregnancy. And the thing with being pregnant as a teen is that your body isn’t the only thing that changes. It wasn’t just that I always had to pee, or that my back always hurt. It wasn’t only that my feet ached and I cooked the funkiest meals (they were still so good they’d make you twerk something, but definitely off the wall: macaroni jalapeño burgers and Caribbean jerk lamb tacos).
The biggest changes weren’t the ones that happened to my body at all.
It was that ’Buela had to scrounge up more sewing jobs to supplement the money she gets from disability, that the viejos playing dominoes on the corner shook their heads when I walked past, that dudes on the train smirked at my swollen boobs but wouldn’t give up their seats; that I had to take a million make-up tests for the days I was at doctor appointments or too morning-sick to make it to school.
When they first learned I was pregnant, Principal Holderness and the guidance counselor called a special meeting in the main office. ’Buela had to come into school and they called in Ms. Fuentes, too. Principal Holderness and the counselor offered to transfer me to an alternative high school program specifically for pregnant teens. But Ms. Fuentes didn’t play that. She said switching me midyear into a new school would be a hard adjustment, and that since the program had a decelerated curriculum it would affect my graduating on time. I know she called ’Buela beforehand to discuss it, and they must have come up with a plan, because ’Buela was quick to chime in, saying my staying at Schomburg Charter would be “pivotal for my retention and matriculation.” The sentence sounded as if she’d rehearsed it, circling her mouth over those words in the mirror to make sure she got it right, and I know it was Ms. Fuentes who had explained to ’Buela what that meeting would be about. I didn’t even know what those words meant at the time, but I know now Ms. Fuentes was fighting to help keep me a regular kid for as long as possible.
I’ve always been small: physically petite, which made people think I had a small personality, too. And then, all of a sudden, I was a walking PSA: a bloated teen warning, taking up too much space and calling too much attention.